Prompts: A Collection
by nightgigjo
Summary: An ongoing series of HP/Spn fic-lets and scenes based (mostly) on Tumblr prompts, chiefly from putthepromptsonpaper and writeworld, with the occasional un-prompted plot bunny. Attempts at racebending inside; rated T because Dean.
1. The Aftermath

She had been done with battles, once. Out of the world of heroes who saved it, back amongst the innocent and the ignorant, people chasing dreams and paychecks and toddlers, living out lives as fully undistinguished and untarnished by the fact of war and the threat of oblivion as any she could have wished for herself.

And then, the angel had come.

Yet another prophesy, of the Daughter of the Earth, the Brightest Witch who had to save the Righteous Man, lest the world tumble into darkness. And so, she had come.

There had been little choice. When the alternative was Armageddon, how could she have chosen otherwise?

And now here they were, at the end of everything. The fighting had stopped with the last combatants, and it had been several ragged breaths before she, or any of them, it seemed, had realized it was over.

She had turned to see the brothers standing, back to back, covered in grime and gore and their own sweat, and probably some of their own blood. They had stood together, at last, against heaven and hell. They had fought - together - and survived.

And as that realization dawned, they had turned as one to her, eyes seeing past the Fiendfyre she still wielded like a sword, to her face, her eyes. Their twinned expressions of joy and relief brought her out of the Berzerker rage that had fueled the flames, flames which flickered and died as she began to sag beneath the oncoming wave of exhaustion.

And then suddenly she was taken up, buoyed by two pairs of arms reaching for her, clasping her tight as they knelt beside her, Dean's arm tight around her waist as though clinging to a life-raft, Sam's cheek resting on the top of her head, comforting and comfort-seeking. Wordlessly she sank into them, letting the weariness wash over her, drinking in everything about this moment. It would be imbued on her memory forever: the scent of burning feathers, cotton shirts on her cheek.

A/N: This was inspired by a prompt from putpromptsonpaper, and is dedicated to marionhood, whose fault it is that I know about Supernatural at all. This references her stories "Hermione's Angel" and its sequel, "The Family Business," which are excellent and deserve all the reads and reviews they can get.


	2. A Witch Walks Into a Bar

"Don't even bother, lads, this one's way out of your league."

Before they could even register whose voice it was, he brothers spun on their heels, Dean training the Colt directly at the speaker's head, Sam ready with Ruby's knife. Crowley was, as usual, singularly unimpressed. "Oh, come now, boys," he crooned in mock offense, "is that any way to treat an old friend? Especially when I've come all this way just to help you out."

Dean lowered the Colt slightly, but he wasn't about to let his guard drop completely. "Help? How?"

"How else? You blundering idiots have an unerring penchant for bulldozing your way into business that doesn't concern you," the demon retorted. "You need magic for your little quest, sure. Let me send you someone from downstairs - vindictive, devious - but predictable." Crowley returned the brothers' skeptical gaze with a placating one. "I can guarantee results with one of mine. This one, though…" The demon shook his head and tisked.

Dean's face scrunched into a frown. "Wait, you mean she's not one of yours?"

"Ooh, who's the bright one now, Moose?" Crowley scoffed, giving Sam a none-too-gentle jab in the ribs. "Face it, you two chuckleheads wouldn't know real magic if it bit you in the arse," Crowley drawled. "Look, demons deal strictly in blood magic. You know, loan out a few extra special talents, gather in a few souls. Exchanges, tit for tat. Honest living," he said, blithely waving away their scornful looks. "Wherever this one got her particular skill set, it wasn't us."

The brothers swiftly exchanged glances before turning to follow Crowley's gaze, casting a wary glare at the woman they'd been following. If they hadn't just seen what she'd done back at the warehouse, she would have looked completely normal – well, what the rest of the world considered 'normal'. But Sammy was right: there was something off about her, the way she had holstered that weird weapon of hers, completely relaxed, as if waving a stick in the air to put out a two alarm fire were the most ordinary thing in the world.

And now Sam had that look in his eye.

Dean grabbed his brother by the sleeve. "Whatever you're thinking, Sammy, just…no."

"I don't know, Dean," Sam countered, "it sounds like she could help. And at least it wouldn't be demon stuff – that can't hurt, right?" Sam's eyes pleaded his case.

His brother wasn't watching him at all; he still had his eyes trained on the door of the bar the witch had disappeared into. Dean's face was a mask, but one that was gradually evolving from stony to contemplative.

Crowley's expression briefly flickered with rage before returning to its usual sanguine, haughty aloofness. His tone, however, belied that calm facade. "What are going to do," he scoffed, primly cleaning one of his fingernails, "just walk up to her and ask if she wants to join your gang?"

Neither of the brothers was paying him any attention. They were too focused on their quarry.

Crowley grimaced, and shook his head. If nothing else, years in Hell had taught him to recognize a lost cause. "Trust me, boys," he said, "you're better off well away from her ilk." When this earned him no reply, he simply rolled his eyes. "Fine. If you must insist on following this route, I wash my hands of you," he said, and popped out of existence again.

That was just the push the Winchesters needed. This woman was a witch, and they had to find out if she'd help them. Dean gave a quick nod, and the brothers stalked into the bar after her.


	3. Conditions

"Don't look at me that way. It makes me feel like you're going to eat me alive."

Sam shot his brother a Look, and both men suppressed an involuntary shudder. Some hunts didn't let you forget, period. Dean sobered immediately.

"Look," he said, shaking away every hint of his thoughts, falling into what he liked to call his 'just business' voice, "you got skills, we need help. I'm not going to waste anyone's time and try to make you help us, but you don't strike me as the type of person to let shit go down without a fight, especially if you can put it down." He turned a calculating gaze on the woman, a cocked eyebrow daring her to refute his assessment.

The woman let out a huff of recognition, but her demeanor didn't shift. Her expression hardened. "I have conditions."


	4. Without You

"Alright, now…"

An insistent tapping near his head, intruding on his thoughts. _Or dreams. Maybe dreams._

Dean's senses gathered themselves slowly, wandering in one at a time. _Cold. On his face, something smooth. Or his face, on something smooth, cold. Stale beer. Smell that anywhere. Sweat, too. Reeking. Something else. Bit oily, slick. Varnish, maybe. Or wood cleaner._

He pried open an eye. Face leaning over him. _Nice woman. Bartender. Tapping. Her fingernails._ Or the first one, anyway. Right next to his face.

"Oh, good," came a wry voice, slightly hoarse. "He lives." More tapping. "Need ya to sit up. Closin' time."

The partially opened eye rolled up, tracking the voice. Cracked the other eye open, still couldn't see. His hands found his head, and the left one rubbed the aching spot behind his eyebrows while the right groped around for something. Missing. Something grabbed his right hand and he was hauled up, and the room shifted violently. Strong arms gripped his shoulders, and his vision swirled before finally focusing on the weathered brown face in front of him.

"There you are," the woman said, a lopsided grin deepening the creases at her eyes. He felt the world tilt again, but her hands kept him from slipping away with it. "Steady now. Can ya walk?"

Dean started to nod, instantly regretting it. Shrugging her off, he grabbed both bar and barstool, and levered himself onto his feet, where he swayed, but stood. The bartender nodded her approval, and after a quick glance to the manager, hooked one arm into Dean's to guide him to the door.

The parking lot was deserted, except for the Impala and a boxy blue subcompact that looked like it had seen better days about fifteen years ago. Dean surreptitiously leaned against the nearest fence post, wondering if he was sober enough to take Baby back to the motel tonight. The bartender was looking him up and down, clearly assessing the same thing. She looked from him to the car and back again, a stern expression hardening her otherwise amiable face. "You're not driving home," she said, dangling his keys in her roughened hand.

Dean briefly considered protesting, but her determination was plain. "Naw," he drawled, concentrating so he didn't slur his speech too much. "My motel's just down the road. Mind if I leave her here tonight, come get her later?" The bartender gave a curt nod, and clapped Dean on the shoulder before giving him his keys. He tapped his forehead in a mock salute before slipping the keys in his pocket and turning down the sidewalk, away from the corner of the lot where the Impala was parked.

His thoughts, as halting and sporadic as his steps, wandered aimlessly through his mind. _Good of her, he thought, making sure I'd be okay. Didn't have to_. A crack in the sidewalk threatened to trip him, and he fell forward, but by some miracle his feet caught up to his body before he hit the pavement. _Jesus_ , he thought as he steadied himself on a nearby tree, _I'm still shitfaced. Sammy's gonna be pissed._

 _SAMMY._

Dean dropped to his knees, and the world fell away.

The gnawing emptiness that he'd tried to drown in alcohol came rushing back to the surface of his consciousness, and Dean stared down into its gaping maw, the fight drained out of him, unable to flee. Dead. Sammy. His brother, the only person he'd had left, who he was supposed to protect, gone. Just…gone.

And it hadn't even been over something _important_ \- just a werewolf hunt gone wrong. He'd been about to shoot the bastard, when his pistol inexplicably jammed. The creature had seen his opportunity, and had leaped for Dean's throat. It should have meant his death. Instead, his baby brother had shoved him aside, out of the path of the beast's wicked sharp claws, taking both the kill and the brunt of the attack. The werewolf had fallen in a headless heap at his feet, then Sam toppled, hands over his abdomen. Dean rushed to his side, but could only sit there, helpless, while his brother's face drained of color and life in a matter of seconds.

It was a hunter's death, one he could have wished for himself. _But Sammy? Sam should have had better. More._ A real life, not this endless series of adrenaline rushes and close calls.

 _A waste. That's what it was. A stupid pointless waste._

The urge to vomit brought Dean back to the wretched present. He heaved and retched until there was nothing left but bile. He sank down to the ground a few feet away from the mess he'd made and sat there, staring up at the night sky. It should have been deepest night, without a hint of predawn light, but the moon's glow was bright enough to throw shadows across the sidewalk. If he looked hard enough, it looked like the haunted forest in "Wizard of Oz," spindly trees on the near side of the sidewalk menacing him with gnarled branches.

It was then he noticed one of the shadows moving independently between the trees: the outline of a long, fanged snout and a set of curved claws fell across his path.

Dean froze. Years of training had honed his reflexes to fight (flight, not so much), but right now he was at too much of a disadvantage. He was on the ground, he had no idea what this creature was. All he had on him was a silver knife and a hip flask of holy water. Everything else was back in the Impala. A chuck of ice settled in his wrung-out stomach. He wasn't going to get out of this one alive.

Dean slipped the knife out of his pocket, a wolfish grin stealing across his face. He might not survive this one, but he would by God take something with him when he went.

The rustling of the creature's passage was getting steadily nearer, a low growl gradually rising to cover the sound of crunching leaves and twigs. Dean rolled into a crouch, balancing on the balls of his feet, ready to spring the moment the creature cleared the trees. He heard the creature stop abruptly, sniff the air, and at once the rumble in the beast's throat erupted into a spitting snarl. Dean could smell it now, musk and wet fur not quite overpowering the odor of fresh blood on its breath. It was very nearly behind him. Sending up a silent prayer to no one in particular, Dean rose and spun in a single fluid movement, determined to give as much as he would get.

The smartass battle cry died on his lips as he came face to face with not one but two opponents in the clearing. The creature was unlike anything he'd ever seen: it was gaunt and sinewy, bipedal but bent forward, its long, clawed fingers almost trailing the ground. Its short, downy fur glimmered silver in the moonlight. It looked like the skin of Weimaraner had been stretched over a human frame. It wasn't even looking at him, but at a shadowy figure, hooded and cloaked but clearly in a defensive posture, just a few yards away.

Well, it _hadn't_ been looking at him, anyway.

The beast whipped its head around, eyes narrowed and teeth bared. In an instant it was on him, claws boring through both leather jacket and tee shirt, just pricking the skin on his chest. It _glared_ at him. There was a ferocious intelligence in those eyes, and it looked _annoyed_.

Before Dean could so much as struggle against its grasp, the creature was suddenly enveloped in red light. He saw the lights in its eyes go out, and it collapsed in a heap, mostly on top of Dean. There was a shout before the whole world went red, and Dean lost consciousness.

* * *

A/N: This one was not inspired by a prompt, but just came out of general musings. I'll probably develop this into its own story later on, but right now I just had to get it out on paper, so to speak. In case you're wondering, Dean's a bit older than in the series here, somewhere mid-40s-ish. I wanted to get clear of the upcoming season, for some reason.

I'll give you one guess as to who's under that hood. If you've read anything of mine, you won't need more than one. I'm a bit obsessed.


	5. The Getaway

**She drove into the night with only a vague determination that anywhere must be better than the place she left behind.**

It didn't even matter to her which car she stole, so long as she got away.

In retrospect, it should have.

It had started out normally enough: increased werewolf activity in the greater Boston area, so the Salem contingent had called in an expert. As a senior official in the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures and a former Auror, this sort of assignment was precisely up Hermione's alley, as they said on this side of the Pond. She took a small team with her to the neighborhood of Muggle Boston that sidled up to the hidden areas of Wizarding Boston, to investigate the report they had from a witch complaining of howling noises coming from just beyond the back garden. The Muggles they'd interviewed hadn't given them more than "those weird fratboys coming and going at all hours" in the house at the end of the street. It was early evening by the time they'd gone knocking there. As they approached the house, they heard a scuffle going on inside. Before they could decide what to do, the front door had flown open and a flood of creatures had poured through.

Within moments her two companions had been torn to pieces. Several feral-looking men (with claws and fangs, but no other hallmarks of lycanthropy, her mind relentlessly catalogued) had jumped them almost at once, and only Hermione's war-honed reflexes had saved her. Mitchell had been about to get off a curse when the first creature took him down, and Baines had simply turned and run. One of the creatures had given instant and lethal chase.

Hermione had fired off one or two curses in the resulting chaos, simultaneously thanking Merlin and Ginny Weasley for teaching her the value of the Jelly-Legs Jinx. It had at least slowed her pursuers, just to let her to reach the line of cars parked to one side of the road. She heard shots fired behind her, which only spurred her on. She skidded to a halt in front of a long black car, crouching down with the entire vehicle between her and the definitely-not-werewolves who were on her scent.

She caught a glimpse of two tall, backlit figures who were moving just behind the creatures, striding purposefully, arms raised as though holding some sort of weapon. The taller of the two hefted a shotgun, while the other wielded a blade that glinted dully in the street lamp light. They were driving the creatures onward, moving steadily out into the open yard, while the man-monsters scattered. The ones that ran, the taller man shot. She held herself as still as she could, unsure whether or not to try and make a move to escape. By their weapons, these two were clearly Muggles, so unless her life were in immediate danger, she couldn't use magic they could detect. The last of the monsters turned when he heard his comrades fall, flight switching instantly to fight. Without comment, the second of the pursuers hefted his blade, slowly, almost lazily, before letting it drop in an easy arc, cleanly severing the creature's head from its neck.

Hermione stifled her gasp of surprise and revulsion, but not quite enough. Two heads shot in her direction, and two pairs of heavy footsteps began to pace towards her hiding place.

Without thinking, Hermione sent a wordless spell across the clearing towards the great oak tree, severing a branch with a significant crack.

The distraction worked. Both men took their eyes off her position just long enough for her to Apparate into the car as the limb crashed down onto the roof of the house, masking the noise. Their muffled shouts were drowned out by the revving of the motor, and she sped away from the entire bewildering disaster.


	6. Hard Questions

"If you had the chance to destroy evil, would you do it? Knowing it would destroy you too?"

Dean didn't even have to think. "Hell, yeah," he responded immediately, "root out the bad guys, once and for all? Are you kidding? I'd jump at it." Hell, he'd tried it, more than once.

The woman was still staring into her drink, a dark, calloused brown finger tracing the line of condensation as it trailed sluggishly down the outside of the glass. "And," she muttered, almost too low to hear, "if it would destroy someone else?"

Again, this wasn't exactly a new thought, but wasn't his favorite territory. He'd faced that choice, more times than he could count. Most of the time, the choice had been a sham in the first place. "Depends," he hedged, unwilling to go where this was leading.

"Depends on what, exactly?" she bristled, tawny eyes instantly alert.

 _On whether it had to be Sam._ Dean threw back the rest of his whiskey, eyeing his drinking companion from behind the glass. "On whether they were innocent," he grunted, willing this conversation to die.

She arched one black brow, and for the first time that night, turned her full attention on him. "And who gets to decide if someone is innocent or not? You?" Her expression hovered between scornful and aloof, as though the worth of his soul were at stake. Well, he already knew what that was. If her judgment was as harsh as his own, then hell, he couldn't argue: she'd just be _right_.

Dean sighed, his mouth screwing up in a wry grimace. This was not the kind of night he'd been after when he hit this dive. But if that was his luck, then f**k it, he had nothing to lose. Honesty or nothing, it was. "If I gotta make the decision," he said, face falling serious again, "then yeah." She sat back in the booth, arms crossing over her chest. Dean just gave a half shrug. "If I got it wrong, I should be the one to live with it."

They sat in silence for a long while after that, the woman's face closed off and pensive, left hand tightening one of the twists in her hair. After a few minutes she gave a short nod, and, leaning back in the booth once more, huffed a sigh and looked straight into Dean's face. "Well then," she said, eyes stern and appraising, "I could do with another drink."

Dean could take a hint, as well as anyone. "Same?" he asked as he rose from his seat to flag the bartender down.

A/N: Prompt courtesy of putthepromptsonpaper DOT tumblr DOT com.


	7. Relic

A relic.

That's what he was. A strange artifact of another place, another time, completely out of context in these new surroundings, and every bit as useless. These people didn't need a hunter. The ghosts were friendly, for Pete's sake. He'd spent the better part of forty years salting and burning those bastards, and now he had no reference. It was the entire reason he'd been the one to close the portal in the first place: he didn't know how to live without being a hunter, and yet here he was, alive, and obsolete.

But she'd said it, hadn't she? That Granger woman. _There's always a price._ He'd known that, when he stepped through that archway, ready to pay with his own blood, all of it. And the damn thing had taken him through, whole and breathing.

He had no right to be walking this Earth, or any other. And no amount of cheery pep-talks was going to break that resolution. But he'd never once considered taking the coward's way out. Sacrifice himself, sure - for Sammy or the whole world, not like there was any difference between those two - but _for something_.

Just offing himself, though? No. Not for nothing. Never for nothing. He'd fought death too long to just _stop_.

No. Keeping going was the only thing he could do. But what the hell he was going to do with this life he'd been granted, Dean had absolutely no idea.

-

 **A/N:** Prompt courtesy of hourlyprompts on Tumblr.


	8. Diagnostic

It was taking far too long.

A simple series of tests, to determine if this new visitor, wherever he came from, was a Muggle or not. Whether they could tell him anything about the Wizarding World, a thing which may or may not have existed where he had been, or whether they had to Obliviate him and somehow find a place for him in the Muggle world.

The room was clinical, by Wizarding standards, at least: it had white walls and floors, furnished only with an examination table and a small stool. On one wall was an observation booth, and on the wall opposite they had hung a large mirror. The mirror was spelled to reflect the aura of whomever laid on the table or sat on the stool.

Their traveler, still unconscious from when they'd found him, was laid out on the table, which was barely large enough to accommodate his height and bulk. He was sturdily built, and muscular under the bit of extra padding he carried - a stone, at most. He looked to be in active middle age, somewhere in his forties, close-cropped brown hair silvered with an even sprinkling of grey. In repose his face was peaceful, but creases between his brows and at the corners of his mouth implied that this was a rare occurrence. His skin was rugged and tanned, crisscrossed with thin, pale scars.

Of course, performing the diagnostic on a person from - what? Another dimension? Alternate reality? - was completely unprecedented, but the process was otherwise straightforward. Detect the presence of magic. Detect the markers that being around magic left on a person, be they magical, Muggle, or Squib. The markers ran like veins around and through a person's aura, and although they might vary in pattern or color, they were present in any person w magic flowed through them, deepening the channels the more a person was exposed to it. Muggles either had no markers at all, or they lay on the surface of their auras like rivulets of water poured over an egg. On magic users, the channels flowed outward from their magical core in evenly-spaced fans like tree branches. Squibs had many more external rivulets, but also displayed smaller twig-like extensions from their center. Those had been nearly impossible to distinguish from the external markings until she and her team of researchers had discovered a way to enlarge the aura's reflection. The discovery that Squibs did, in fact, possess magic, albeit on a small scale, was still making waves in the rest of the Ministry.

The strength, size and depth of the channels flowing outward from magic users varied greatly, and a skilled reader could tell a lot about the personality and spell-casting habits of the witch or wizard under examination. Strong duelers tended to have large, straight trunks and even dispersion patterns like fireworks; potioneers' channels wound in delicate ribbons like wisps of smoke. She'd been fortunate enough to be able to both examine Minerva McGonagall and Filius Flitwick while the Department of Mysteries had been refining the technique. Brilliant silver needles had flashed in the former Transfiguration professor's crystal-clear aura, and the golden glow of the Charms professor's aura had sparkled with delicate vine-like traceries that were almost blue.

The visitor's aura had no clear lines. Nothing was clear about his aura at all. It wasn't transparent, but hazy, pearl grey and nearly opaque, and without any discernable pattern within the cloud that surrounded him. Not a swirl, or spark, or motion - absolutely nothing that she'd come to expect from looking at every kind of aura imaginable.

Frustrated, Hermione turned to call the Mediwitch back into the room, to have her wake the man. Perhaps if he regained consciousness, they could at least get answers the old-fashioned way. There were very few witches or wizards in the Ministry who were as versed in non-magical interview and interrogation techniques as Hermione (although she'd just as well stick with asking questions, thank you very much). If magical diagnoses were unavailable, she would make do with the basics.

As she turned to go, Hermione caught a subtle shift in the corner of her eye. She whirled to face the man again, but he was still lying motionless on the examination table in front of her. His aura was the same cloudy grey as before. Again she pivoted, slowly this time, leaving her eyes on the prone figure until the last second. There was no change, as long as she was focused on him, but the instant he moved out of her field of vision, a hint of a ripple played across the surface of his aura. She stopped, and in her peripheral vision, she saw the pallid gleam pause in its progress, and she tilted her head this way and that, testing the limits of what she could observe without actually looking. The light that passed through his aura was diffuse, but discernible, and the luster it left was dim, almost an oily sheen.

Making certain the man was still unconscious, Hermione drew her wand, and muttered the incantation to magnify the aura's reflection, zooming through the foggy image until, at least, details began to emerge.

The man's aura wasn't opaque: it was cracked.

The haze expanded out into a network of hairline crazing, too fine to see with the naked eye, but magnified ten, twenty times, each tiny fracture glinted and shone like sand, or snow. There were no channels that she could see, no pathways grown like neurons or streams, nothing suggesting that magic, at least magic as they knew it, had ever lingered or collected there, or passed with enough intensity to leave a mark. Either that, or it had moved so quickly that the marks weren't visible.

When she shrank the reflection again to look at the original, she could see them, the microscopic imperfections that clouded his otherwise translucent aura beyond recognition. It was like someone had taken a vessel of pure crystal, reduced it to dust, and then reassembled it using every microscopic shard.

There was no safe way to release this man into Muggle society. Whatever had happened to him was too big, too comprehensive for even the most talented cas **t** ers on the Obliviation Squad to

so much as attempt to erase the harmful parts of his memory. It had affected him at his core, it was possibly essential to his identity, even to his self-awareness. They would have to erase so much, there wouldn't be anyone left inside.

She just hoped to Merlin that they wouldn't be forced to try.

A/N: Another one-word prompt courtesy of hourlywritingprompts DOT tumblr DOT com. This is related to Chapter 7: Relic, as well. I can't wait to get this story fleshed out enough to start posting.


	9. Warning

In the relative silence of the motel room, Dean's phone went off. Puzzled, he dug the thing out of his pocket and flipped it open. The name that popped up wasn't one he recognized, so he shut it again. Sam, stretched out on the bed with the laptop on his stomach, looked up from the screen inquiringly.

"No idea," Dean shrugged, dumping the cell phone onto the nearby table, along with the rest of his pockets' contents. Falling bonelessly into the room's one chair, he rummaged through the tumble of paper bags that had once contained their dinner, searching the bottom of each for the last few fries that would have invariably fallen out of the cardboard containers. He crowed in triumph as he fished a handful out, dropping them carelessly into one half of his hamburger carton.

Before he'd had a chance to take a bite out of the first one, his phone beeped again. Dean glanced over to his brother, who simply raised an eyebrow.

Dean flipped his phone open again, this time to reveal a text message from the same caller.

 _Look_ , it said, _I know you have no reason to trust me, but there is something wrong with your brother. If you want my help, call me. - H_

Scowling at the phone, Dean pounded the keys, then paused only a moment before hitting Send. _Who is this?_

Moments later the message tone sounded again. _You hit on me at the bar. The "Brit chick"._

Dean's frown deepened at this revelation. He remembered her, sure, but he had no idea how she'd gotten his number – he'd never gotten the chance. When he felt a prickle on the back of his neck, Dean looked up to see Sam glaring at him, with a strange gleam in his eye. He was annoyed, sure, but something about his expression was off, somehow. There was a glint, hard and suspicious, in his brother's enquiring stare.

"Wrong number," Dean lied. Sam's raised eyebrow told him exactly how believable that wasn't, but he still didn't press Dean for the truth. They'd both been around this dance floor enough times to know when they were going to get _I don't wanna talk about it_ for an answer.

Dean settled in to polish off the rest of the fries, and Sam went back to his research. The cell phone didn't bother to ring again.

After an agitated couple of beers, Dean excused himself to the bathroom. The light above the sink was ancient, the frosted glass globe pinned into the weathered brass fixture with painted-over screws, yellowed bulb shining fitfully through a couple years' worth of dust. The pedastal sink itself was, miraculously, strong enough to lean against, and Dean took up position there, examining the messages again under the weak lamplight.

 _There's something wrong with your brother.  
_  
Didn't he just know it.

This woman – this stranger – could apparently see whatever was going on with Sammy, this weirdness that Dean had, thus far, steadfastly refused to acknowledge. With a crack the phone snapped shut again, and the elder of the Winchesters rubbed his face with a calloused hand. Sighing, he turned to go back out into the room. As his vision fell across the tiny bathroom window, he stopped dead: in the deeper shadows of the trees, he could just make out the silhouette of someone petite and bushy-haired making her way across the parking lot.

Not even pausing to curse, Dean stalked out of the motel, muttering some excuse to Sam, but not without picking up a sidearm. He didn't bother with stealth, instead striding across the parking lot directly toward the figure, who was, albeit more hesitantly, approaching Baby.

"Your brother is in danger," she began, without preamble, the whites of her eyes flashing in the near-darkness. She was nearly invisible, dark skin blending in as she leaned against Baby's hood.

Dean was instantly on the defensive. "What could you possibly know about my brother?"

The woman scoffed and shook her head. "Something's not right with him. He's...gotten into something, and I can help him get out of it."

 _The trials,_ he thought. _She's trying to talk us out of the trials._

Dean's jaw clenched, and his left hand found the hip flask of holy water in his back pocket. "Yeah," he grunted, "we're fine."

"I have an idea," she said, face a mask of suppressed rage, "why don't you stop acting so macho-melodramatic and let me help you?"

"Or how about you leave me and my family the fuck alone?" he retorted, fist clenching tighter around the grip of the .45.

* * *

 **A/N:** _Via putthepromptsonpaper -_ "Random thought – could you maybe leave me and my family the duck alone" with a little racebending (Hermione, natch). Not part of any existing AU, but I really like how this one turned out, so it might make an appearance.


	10. Assessment

They tracked the demons to a dilapidated warehouse on the very edge of the industrial district. "Of course," Dean growled, thoroughly unimpressed. "Well," he murmured to the woman, "at least it's clichéed."

Her nose wrinkled in amusement. "Demons aren't exactly known for their creativity," she said in a dry chuckle.

The Brit chick was holding that – stick, wand, whatever it was – like she was going to start fencing. Dean shook his head, and kept his thoughts to himself for once. If she was going to help him get Sammy, there was no way he was going to say something to piss her off _now_. Instead, he motioned to her as he ducked behind the crumbling half-wall that was the only opportunity for cover. She followed him easily, silently, crouching down next to him almost before he'd gotten fully in position.

Dean gave her an appraising sidelong look. "So," he said, "any way you can figure out how many are inside?"

Her wicked grin was all the answer he got. Pointing her wand, she mouthed a soundless spell, and frowned.

Dean quirked an eyebrow. This 'natural magic' of hers was, so far, a bit underwhelming. "Problems?" he asked, tone low and level.

"About a hundred of them," she replied, "and they're concentrated on this side of the building." She was looking straight at – or through? – the wall, eyes flicking from side to side, as though counting or tracking invisible moving targets. She cursed under her breath. "They're moving this way," she hissed. "They know we're here."

Dean swore. "Well, this all feels a little more hopeless than usual."

"Oh, I don't know," she mused, simultaneously scanning the compound for weak points. "Invincible foe? Insufficient resources? Insurmountable odds? Seems pretty familiar to me."

Dean stared disbelievingly at this woman."Jesus. You sound like my dad."

The woman's mouth screwed up into a wry grimace, before looking Dean in the eye. She hummed a moment before saying "Marine?" It wasn't precisely a question. At Dean's curt nod, all she said was, "Ah," before focusing back on the target.

"Ah?" Dean queried as he ran checks over the Colt, following her lead.

The woman's posture shifted somewhat, as though holding in a breath or a curse. The steel in her eyes, too, was eerily like his father's. _She's lost someone,_ he thought privately, _like we lost Mom._ Dean wondered, not for the first time, if this woman was older than she looked. No one Sammy's age should be as world-weary as that. When this was over, he determined, Dean was going to find out what happened there, if only to keep it from happening to his brother.

* * *

 **Via putthepromptsonpaper:** "This all feels a little more hopeless than usual"

A/N: A semi-continuation of the previous chapter, which may end up fleshing itself out into its own story. Time will tell.


End file.
